Bad Moon On The Rise
by IronAmerica
Summary: The Matheson Clan has been hiding a secret for generations. Danny just found out. He's not very happy.
1. Start of Something New

So, I've been talking to reviewers of my other stories, and it turns out that they all want werewolves. I have obliged.

Danny causes people so many headaches it'll stop being funny...maybe.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.

- o – o -

Bad Moon On The Rise

Chapter One: Start of Something New

Captain Thomas Neville had spent thirteen years as a member of the Monroe Militia. In his thirteen years, he'd learned a few very concrete things:

Number one: Miles Matheson was a certified jackass, and his family was just as annoying. Ben Matheson, for example, had been too…_pacifistic_ for his own good. The Matheson boy he was currently holding hostage against Miles Matheson's eventual good will was a moron. (On the upside, it seemed to be a cover for an intelligent and slightly vicious streak. One could only hope.)

Number two: No matter what he thought privately, Bass Monroe had to be seen as the leader of the Republic. Anything else would destroy the stability that the Monroe Republic had to bring. (It was made easier by the fact that Monroe himself had ordered Neville to keep the charade in place. The consequences could have been ugly otherwise.)

Number three: While Monroe was the public leader, Neville knew that Rachel Matheson actually controlled the Monroe Republic. He wasn't too sure just how it had come to be like that, but she was all the same. The comedian sitting in the wagon was going to change that, though.

Number four, however, he had come by the hard way. Under no circumstances were you to leave a werewolf unattended during a full moon.

Captain Neville sighed, eyeing the chains he'd used to secure the Matheson boy nearly eight hours before. It'd been two days hard travel since the boy had nearly killed Richards, Templeton Jackson's best friend. From what he knew of werewolves, mostly from General Monroe, was that the transformation—the first one—was incredibly painful. And, unfortunately, werewolves got bloodthirsty and vicious before the first change.

Luckily for Richards, Danny Matheson had asthma, or Neville would be burying another one of his men.

"Find him," Neville barked, standing up. He shot a glare at Richards, who was rubbing his throat with a pained grimace. "And you. Stay with the wagons. I don't want to bury another man." Neville was quite aware of the fact that his men thought he was a crazy, psychopathic bastard, but none of them could deny the fact that he was the closest they'd ever had to a father-figure. He cared about them, and they returned his loyalty in spades.

_Richards should just be grateful he was still alive after the stunts he'd been pulling_, Neville thought grimly as he fingered the inhaler in his coat pocket. If the change had hit Matheson during an attack, there was no guarantee the boy would still be able to breathe when they caught up with him.

The Militia soldiers spread out, hunting for tracks. Neville wondered how long it would take for them to figure out that the dinner plate-sized paw prints in the soft earth lead directly away from where Daniel—_Danny was a stupid nickname only fit for a child_, Neville thought—had been sleeping.

The captain swung himself up into the saddle on his horse and began following the tracks he'd noticed. His men, wondering why their captain was following a strange trail, hurried after. Foot soldiers had, in the past fifteen years, learned to keep pace with a horse, or at least at half-pace with someone mounted and following a trail that was nearly cold.

_Werewolves_, Neville mused with another grimace as the tracks curved towards the river he and his men had been following for the past two days. _What's next, selkies?_

The tracks stopped at the water, and it looked as though the werewolf currently getting on Neville's nerves had either rolled around in the mud, or had been trying to decide whether or not swimming was a good idea. A few feet further down the bank, however, the tracks led off towards a stand of trees. The small creek running from the river to the stand of trees probably had something to do with it.

Well, that's what _he_ would have done, anyways. If there was no nearby source of potable water, then the hiding place wasn't worth it. Neville dismounted from his horse and passed the reigns off to his second in command.

"Keep the rest of the men back, sergeant," he murmured quietly. "I don't know what state Matheson is in, and he's less likely to kill me than them."

His sergeant nodded, frowning unhappily. "Yes sir. Just…be careful, alright?"

It touched Neville to hear the concern in the younger man's voice. Loyalty spent was loyalty repaid. Positive proof, though… That was something else entirely…

- o – o -

_Four years, eight weeks after the Blackout_

Thomas Neville had never considered joining the Militia. It hadn't appealed to him, after all. He had a wife and a young son to look after, and he was perfectly content to look after the farm his wife had inherited from her father shortly after the blackout. And yet, here he was in Philadelphia, preparing to take the Militia's brand. What the hell had he been thinking, all those weeks ago?

Oh. Right. He'd lost the coin toss in his community. Villages were expected to send at least one conscript to join the Militia, of their own free will. It was considered a tax write-off, which was probably what made the idea that much more appealing. Neville had, for the first time in two years, been unlucky. He'd drawn the short straw, and was packed off with the recruits from the surrounding communities to Kimberton, Pennsylvania to learn the ways of the Monroe Militia.

Eight weeks later, he was standing in line to receive his first pay stub and the brand of the Monroe Militia. Despite his initial misgivings, he was actually looking forward to getting the brand. And, of course, the pay that came with it. His wife could use the money to buy herself a new dress, or shoes that fit right for their son. Or, of course, another book for the community's school.

Fifteen minutes later, Neville was holding a frozen pad of cloth to his arm and looking for the nearest bar so he could get drunk until the pain in his right arm subsided. It hurt like a bitch. He ducked into an alley and leaned against the wall, breathing through his nose while he tried to work his way through the pain logically.

While he was pulling himself through the pain, a side door in the building opened. A young man with curly blond hair slipped out of the building, clutching a blanket around his shoulders with one hand. Neville watched, curious. He hadn't thought Kimberton—well, Philadelphia, if he was going to be accurate about locations—had a whorehouse. Apparently he'd been wrong. The only question was whether this young man was one of the clients, or one of the service providers. (Not that he swung that way, but apparently Captain Jeremy Mitchell did. Doing favors for the officers was a quick way to get favors in return; it was like working as an insurance adjuster, but with a salary dependent on commissions.)

Neville couldn't stop himself from gaping in horror, though, as the young man looked at him, his blanket slipping a little. Hideous black burns covered the blonde's shoulder, dipping out of sight over his shoulder. One marred his cheek, as though he'd been gagged with a super-heated piece of steel. It was probably his imagination, but Neville could smell the scent of cooking meat.

"Is the graduation today?" the blonde rasped, leaning heavily against the wall. Neville nodded mutely. "Figures," the man murmured, eyes closing. "Not one word out of you, recruit," the blond added, opening one blue eye to stare at him.

Neville drew himself up to his full height, a sneer on his face. "And who says I have to listen to you?" Alright, so it probably wasn't the best decision, but his arm hurt like hellfire, and he was scared that he'd stumbled into something that was going to get him killed.

"Sebastian Monroe," the blonde offered, holding on the hand that had been under the blanket. Neville tried not to stare at the black burn encircling Monroe's wrist. The tattoo, though, caught his attention. "Keep quiet, and you'll have the fastest promotion in history."

"I…I'd really rather have a beer, sir," Neville said weakly. General Monroe laughed at that, a slight wince on his face.

"Keep me laughing like that, and I'll buy you the whole keg," Monroe replied.

- o – o -

It had been the start of a very odd-couple friendship, although Neville still couldn't decide which of them was Felix Unger. He'd kept his silence, and had been promoted to captain less than a week later. His recruit mates had despised him for it, and had teased him relentlessly as he'd moved into officer quarters.

That had been his first introduction to werewolf physiology. He'd been warned, before setting out on this particular jaunt to Chicago, that Ben Matheson—and likely the rest of the Matheson clan, with the exception of Rachel, who was related only through marriage—was a werewolf. Neville had prayed that none of them were, and was now being heavily disappointed.

A massive tan-colored wolf was lying on its side in the clearing next to the small creek head, panting heavily. The dust in the air around the wolf spoke volumes. Neville sighed and knelt down next to the wolf, placing his hand on its side.

"Daniel," he said, calmly as he could mange. "Come on, son, give me a sign of life." He rubbed the wolf's—Danny—shoulder in as comforting a gesture as he could manage. The wolf whined unhappily. "Come on. That's it…" The wolf gave him a slightly betrayed look—well, as good as a wolf could manage, anyways. Neville cast an eye up at the sky visible through the branches of the trees, willing the sunrise to come faster. He knew how to give a human a dose of steroids via an inhaler, but he'd never given any thought as to how he was supposed to administer them to a werewolf. Not one who was still a wolf, anyways…

The sunrise couldn't come fast enough. Danny's panting had gotten worse, and the whine was beginning to get on Neville's nerves. The first gold-red rays of sunlight streaming through the branches were entirely too welcome. The Militia captain sat back on his heels as the wolf whined in pain. Watching the transformation was never easy. Monroe's transformations had left him on the floor, panting and covered in sweat, weaker than a newborn kitten (puppy, if the wolf analogy had to be carried through).

It was no different with Danny. The teenager was left curled up on the grass, panting and coughing because he couldn't breathe. Judging by how badly he was shaking, he was facing muscle exhaustion too. The light sheen of sweat all over his body was another testament to how badly he'd taken to the shift.

Neville held the inhaler out. Danny gave him a cautious, suspicious look. The captain sighed, stuck the dispenser into the boy's slightly open mouth, and shoved the capsule down. The steroids were probably far, far past their due date, but it did the trick. Danny's breathing eased, leaving him trembling and curled into a ball on the ground. The trees gave him a little shade and created a dappled shadow over his back and thighs.

"Have fun last night?" Neville asked mildly. Danny made a weak attempt at a rude gesture. In his current state, there wasn't much he could do against any member of the militia, much less a feather.

"G…go away," Danny whispered. He looked paler than usual, and rather ill. Neville sighed and pulled the blanket he'd brought along out of his pack. The older man wrapped it around the teenager's shoulders and helped him to his feet.

"General Monroe ordered me to bring the Mathesons to him, son," Neville replied as he led Danny back to the sergeant and the waiting horses. "But good luck with your next run."

Neville steadfastly ignored the looks his sergeant was giving him as he helped the naked boy, wrapped up in a blanket, onto the waiting horse. He climbed up behind Danny, and, wrapping an arm around the exhausted teen's waist to keep him from falling off, set a quick pace back to camp.

Hopefully Miles Matheson was nowhere in the area, or he'd never survive the trip…

Back at the camp, Richards had a change of clothes waiting for Danny. They didn't fit particularly well, but they were dry and intact.

"And that, Private Richards," Neville said under his breath as Danny growled at the man, "is why you never play games with a werewolf."

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Want to know more about the Matheson clan and their issues? Drop a line and let me know!

Edit 10/10/2012: Hall's name is actually Richards, as learned from reading the official recaps. Details have been changed in this chapter and future chapters accordingly.


	2. Little Red Riding Hood

Hey, it's an update! Miles enters the picture, and Charlie (understandably) freaks.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away!

- o – o -

Chapter two: Little Red Riding Hood

Charlie Matheson could only remember leaving her home once. It had been a week after the collapse, and she'd been about six—maybe. It was hard to remember how old she'd been. The food in the house had run out, and daddy hadn't wanted to break into other peoples' homes to find more. So they'd left. Breaking into the school and grocery stores had been okay, though, Charlie had learned.

The man her mother had shot was her clearest memory of that week, along with Danny crying himself to sleep at night. Her baby brother had hated leaving home—their mom had forced him to leave his favorite blanket and toy bat in his room, because they couldn't fit everything in the wagon that they needed to bring anyways. But mostly, she remembered the sight of the back of the man's head exploding as her mother shot him to make sure he stayed dead.

Now, though, those memories were fading away. The ones replacing them weren't so great, though. Nearly getting raped—something that she'd thought only happened in the stories her parents and the other oldies in the village had used to scare them—was one of them. Nate turning out to be a bad guy was another. Watching Uncle Miles kill people was starting to take up a large chunk of her new memories.

Charlie wasn't sure what to make of her new life, outside the shelter of her home. She'd grown up in relative safety. The worst thing she'd had to face was her father laughing at her as she'd recounted how she'd tripped over a dear she'd been trying to track. Hunting had been relatively safe, and she was the best there was. Unfortunately, being the best in a sheltered community translated to "fresh food" out here in the real world.

Uncle Miles was a good example of that. She'd been traveling with him for nearly three weeks now, and they'd been tracking Danny, the Militia and now Nora's friends in the Rebels. This was the second time in three days that they'd had to stop early to set up camp. Charlie wasn't sure what to make of it. She also wasn't sure if she wanted to question why Uncle Miles always took three shifts on guard for the whole night. He never seemed tired in the mornings…

Nora had sworn, under her breath when Miles was on the other side of the camp, that the man was probably hiding a stash of coffee in the pack he wasn't letting anyone even sneak a peek at. Charlie had no idea what coffee was, but agreed with Nora just so she could have some regular conversation.

Charlie sighed and stood up, stretching. She winced as her back popped and aimed another curse at Captain Neville and his men. If it weren't for them killing her father and kidnapping her baby brother, she could be sleeping on a nice feather mattress back home. And yet, here she was, sleeping on hard packed earth…with a tree root digging right into her spine between two of the vertebrae. _As soon as we get Danny back_, Charlie thought as she massaged the ache away, _I'm going to find the softest bed with thick, warm blankets on it…and I'll sleep for a week._

Her uncle was missing from his post. That worried the young woman a little. From what she knew about the man, Miles would never have abandoned his post in the middle of the night. Not when he had a good friend and one of his only relatives left to look after. Charlie looked around, chewing her lower lip.

With a mischievous smirk, she darted over to Miles' pack. Sure, she was invading his privacy, but he did the same to her all the time. (The lecture on the proper use of protection during sex, just in case she happened to find a nice Rebel boy to settle down with—or at least screw for the few hours they might know each other—had been worthy of Maggie's lectures on the dangers of _unprotected_ sex. Charlie wondered what Maggie and Miles' children would be like, before discarding the thought with a shudder of horror.)

Just as she was about to begin digging through the contents of her uncle's pack, Charlie heard a low growl behind her. She whirled around, hand going immediately to the handle of the machete Uncle Miles had forced her to start carrying. (She had a nice black and purple bruise on her arm from the training he'd been putting her through to get her at least competent with it.) There was a massive black wolf standing behind her.

Charlie had seen a bear once. It had been dead, of course, but it had still stuck with her. She'd been looking for a new source of water when she'd stumbled across it. The bear had been big, but this wolf made the bear look like a puppy.

"N…N…_Nora_!" Charlie screamed, or tried to. It came out as a high-pitched squeak. Charlie scrambled backwards, dragging Miles' pack with her. The machete was stuck in its' sheathe, no matter how hard she tried to get it out. She was going to die, and…

-_Charlie, what the hell were you doing?_-

Charlie whipped her head around, looking for her uncle. She could have sworn she'd heard him. If he moved that quietly all the time, she was going to force him to teach her. That would be dead useful when hunting out here in the wilds…

-_Charlie, look at me. Why the f…_- There was an impatient sigh. –_Damn. Charlie, I thought I told you to stay out of my pack. Didn't Ben teach you anything about respecting others privacy?_-

The sole Matheson girl stared at the wolf that was standing in front of her. It looked annoyed, and… Charlie's breath froze in her throat. There was no way…

"U..uncle Miles?" Charlie squeaked. She pinched her arm, right on the bruise, just to make sure she was still awake. It hurt. A lot. That was disappointing, because Danny would have _loved_ this dream…

-_Oh, if Ben weren't already dead…_- The wolf nodded and sat back on its haunches. –_Now, about my pack...?_-

Charlie blushed crimson and buckled the straps again, before shoving it over to her uncle. This was oddly surreal. If they hadn't been avoiding the mushrooms on general principle, she would have used Maggie's excuse of "magic mushrooms", whatever that meant. (According to Aaron, it was a drug trip, but that hadn't made any sense either. Daddy hadn't explained either phrase to her.)

_-You don't know about the family curse, do you?_-

The blonde shook her head mutely.

-_Of _course_ Ben didn't tell you…_- Miles grumbled, stretching. Charlie's eyes went wide at the sight of his teeth. His canines had to be at least as long as her forearm! -_Welcome to the true history of the Matheson Clan, Charlie. We're werewolves._-

Charlie passed out.

- o – o -

Nora was enjoying the fairly leisurely pace Miles had set. It was one of the things she'd preferred about travelling with him…well, _before_ she'd learned that he was the Militia's founding father, anyways. Still, if this pace kept up, she could forgive him for almost anything. She rolled onto her side, smiling into the leather coat she was using as a pillow. The last place they'd stopped—yesterday morning, actually—had been a department store. The stockrooms looked like they'd already been picked over, but Miles had broken into one of the storage lockers that hadn't been scavenged yet. All three of them had new clothes now, and she had a wonderful leather coat.

Before she could go back to a nice deep sleep, she heard Charlie give a high-pitched breathy scream. Nora grumbled something into her makeshift pillow. Stupid, sheltered country girls, the rebel decided, should be left somewhere they wouldn't be able to get into trouble. Idiot had probably tripped over a tree branch or something and was now seeing Militia everywhere…

At the next squeaky scream, Nora opened one eye. She was going to murder Charlie, and blame it on the kid who was—hopefully—still following them. In the past fifteen years, she'd gotten this much sleep exactly _once_. And she'd been unconscious at that point, so it didn't really count.

What she saw made Nora sit upright in shock. Her knife was in her hand a second later, and Nora was quite ready to get herself a nice coat made out of wolf skin. Maybe Charlie and Miles liked wolf steaks too…

She'd thought Charlie was just a stupid country girl, but she couldn't blame the kid for passing out. There were no wolves that size outside of the old museums, and even those hadn't been real… This wolf was larger than a bear she'd had to shoot two months after the Collapse, when it'd tried to steal her peanut butter out of the cooler.

Just as Nora was about to dart forward, something odd happened. The wolf whined a little, like it was in pain. Nora froze, just in case it was about to attack. And then the wolf started shifting. After several agonizing minutes in which she nearly threw up, Miles Matheson was sitting in the same spot the wolf had been. He was covered in sweat, and was naked as the day he was born.

"Wake Charlie up, will you? I have to go find my clothes."

Nora nodded, a little shocked. Miles walked past her, not really caring that the early rays of morning light were making interesting patterns on his bare skin. (Nora privately hoped he didn't find his clothes _too_ quickly. He was a _very_ good looking man.)

Five minutes later, Charlie and Nora were sitting across from Miles, who still hadn't found his clothes.

"H…how?" Charlie finally asked, breaking the silence. Miles shrugged, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Neither Nora nor Charlie wanted to ask why he had blood on his mouth or all the way down his chest. They were kind of afraid of the answer.

"It's the family gift," Miles said, as though that explained everything. "According to your mother, it's the family curse. Either way, it's something we've kept a secret for well over four hundred years. Werewolves exist. All of them are Mathesons. We can trace it back to before medieval Germany, if you're wondering," he added, seeing Nora's expression.

"I saw you change…" Nora said. "But, as Charlie said, _how_?"

Miles sighed, smiling. "The short story is that my father bit me and Ben when we were kids. It activated the curse—it's genetic, carried through the Matheson side of the family. Ever since then, we've been able to…change. It's easiest when the moon is full, although a non-Matheson shifter figured out how to do it during a dark moon." He looked vaguely guilty at the admission, something neither Charlie nor Nora noticed.

"So…so why didn't I change? Last night, I mean," Charlie clarified quickly. "I'm a Matheson by blood, so shouldn't I have…_shifted_?" She sounded a little unsure of the terminology involved, but Miles eventually nodded.

"That's the…that's the tricky part," Miles admitted with a laugh. "You can carry the gene and never shift. You have to be bitten first."

"Then bite me so I can track Danny!" Charlie said, grinning in excitement. Why had her father never thought of this? It would have cured Danny's asthma!

"It won't work," Miles snapped, crushing Charlie's dream of rescuing her brother from the Militia and his disability in one blow. "And…"

He froze, looking around. The former Militia general's nostrils flared. He didn't relax until two people came into the clearing. Charlie relaxed upon recognizing them, although Nora was still coiled tightly next to her, as though she were ready to pounce at the first sign of trouble. Aaron and Maggie had, apparently, arrived far ahead of schedule. As to how they'd found this particular campsite, Charlie didn't know.

Aaron looked at Miles, who was still rather naked, and looked back at Maggie. He shrugged before turning back to Charlie and the rest of the gang.

"Did we miss something important?"

Charlie decided that not mentioning werewolves to her friends was a good idea.

- o – o –

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Wish there had been more of Miles and his fabulous assets? Drop a line and let me know!

Rowtree-can't exactly say it was a midnight run this time, but it's coming!


	3. Like A Bullet From A Gun

Hey, it's a new chapter! Danny interacts with the Militia.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.

- o – o –

Chapter three: Like A Bullet From A Gun

Danny lay in the bed of the wagon, curled up on his side. He could barely recall last night, although there had definitely been running involved. A lot of running. That was what stuck in his mind the most—it was even more exhilarating than Charlie had described to him when they were younger. (That had been when they'd actually _listened_ to their parents, in an attempt to keep Danny from dying of an asthma attack.) If he could ever recapture that feeling, Danny would have gone through with it in a heartbeat.

As it was, his lungs were killing him. He could remember bits and pieces around dawn that morning. Danny decided they were a result of oxygen deprivation. After all, there was _no_ way Captain Neville would have had anything approaching real human concern for him. The man was more interested in getting him back to General Monroe's base than how he was feeling.

_Although_, he added with a bitter mental laugh, _he _did_ make sure you got medicine for the asthma attack. Albeit with the inhaler he stole from you back at Grace's place… What the hell was an inhaler, anyways?_

The only thing Danny knew for sure about inhalers, though, was that it tasted about a million times better than the Jimson Weed extract…_thing_ Maggie made him drink. He'd been using it since he was ten, and it was still nastier than cough syrup. (At least Maggie's cough syrup knocked him right out so he didn't have to deal with the taste.)

The teenager sighed, curling up into a ball. Maybe if he fell asleep, he could remember the dream he'd had about being a wolf…

- o – o -

Captain Neville was not a patient man at the best of times. He'd been short tempered for years, or so he'd been told. The only two people in the world it didn't phase were his wife, Julia, and his commanding officer, General Monroe. He had his suspicions that Monroe only tolerated his outbursts because of their first meeting and the fact that he, Neville, was more loyal to Monroe than anyone else.

The Militia captain sighed and shot a look back at the teenager lying in the wagon, seemingly asleep. If anyone had told him yesterday that he'd be worried about the boy's health, he'd have laughed himself sick. Unfortunately, there were a few pressing matters on his mind.

The primary one: He had one hell of a soft spot for injured werewolves.

Neville grimaced at the thought. Shortly after he'd met Monroe, he'd learned just what the horrible black burns were. After that, he'd had his wedding ring recast with gold plating. It had taken a good chunk out of his first pay stub, but he was damned if he was going to be the one who accidentally killed the boss. It turned out to be a decent move. Julia had forgiven him, eventually. (The dress and shoes had helped, although the shoes had come too late for their son.)

But that was in the past, he reminded himself. The captain pulled his horse around and trotted back so he could ride next to the wagon for a few minutes. His sergeant merely rolled his eyes and filled in the gap at the head of the column. Neville appreciated the man's tact.

Danny Matheson was curled in the wagon bed, one arm over his face to block out the light. Considering that he'd spent most of the night running around like a maniac, though, Neville couldn't blame him for sleeping. (Although in eight hours, the boy should have been able to clear ten miles, even with the asthma. The shock had probably gotten to him before he'd thought about running away.)

"How's your head, son?" Neville asked. Danny made a muffled noise that was probably something obscene. Neville had to bite his lip to keep a smile from appearing. Julia was like that most mornings. Their son, who'd taken after her, was almost exactly the same way.

"Go 'way," Danny grumbled finally, blinking owlishly up at Neville. "There was a wonderful dream you just ruined. There were rocks involved. You got crushed." Neville sighed, drawing on years of patience to keep his temper in check. At least the boy was honest.

"Have fun last night?" Neville asked instead, tone mild. _How much did Danny actually remember, _he wondered_, about being a wolf?_ And, more importantly, was this his first shift? The captain prayed it was, because he didn't want to deal with a werewolf with seventeen years of experience. Not one of the Matheson brood, who'd had Rachel Matheson as a mother, anyways.

"You mean aside from the asthma attack and being able to run?" Danny replied. "Not much. My head hurts." With that, he rolled onto his other side and proceeded to ignore Neville.

Captain Neville sighed and rode back to the head of the column. He didn't notice Richards conversing with some of the more astute—and violent—members of the company.

- o – o -

Richards looked at the teenager in the wagon, mind working furiously. He and several of his other friends in the company had been playing cards last night. It hadn't been regulation, or even allowed, so they hadn't had lamps on and had played by the light of the moon. Richards _knew_ he wasn't the only one who'd seen the bastard shape-shift. (His sister, if she'd still been alive, would have gone nuts over Matheson. Some strange love affair with a stupid book she read, or something…)

The only question was, how were they going to deal with a werewolf? Templeton had been everyone's best friend. Most of the company liked gambling with him, because he never cheated and always had a good sense of humor, whether he won or lost a hand. Templeton had also been their big-brother and mentor, and had the best food to share when they were at base. Big Carol, his wife, had made sure their diets were well-balanced, hot or cold depending on the weather, and—best of all—varied from whatever they would have eaten at the mess hall.

So, it was an understatement to say that they were unhappy about Templeton's death.

"All I'm saying," Richards said in an undertone as soon as Captain Neville had returned to the head of the column, "is that we've got some serious problems. You know what you saw," he added. "That kid's a werewolf. What the fuck are we supposed to do about that? …Carol's going to kill us for this."

"Jake, just shut up," Rickard muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "If the captain finds out that we know about this…_situation_, we're going to get in trouble. You know his opinion on gambling."

"Well, we can always pray that he'll be more lenient when he finds out that we're going to make sure the werewolf can't run away…" Richards replied. He _really_ didn't want to admit, especially not to his friends, that he was terrified of the teen they were holding prisoner. His throat still hurt, for one thing. For another, silver was pretty hard to come by, if the kid decided to take revenge one full moon. (Hopefully _that_ story was true, because it meant they'd have a month to prepare defenses.)

"I hope so," Rickard replied. The rest of the men in hearing range nodded in agreement. Rickard's mate, Greene, though, was looking thoughtful. Richards shot him a look of loathing as the man quickened his pace until he was walking just behind the wagon. Greene was soon talking quietly with Matheson, too low for anyone to hear.

_Traitor_, Richards thought darkly.

- o – o -

Danny looked up as a shadow fell over his face. One of the Militia soldiers was walking behind the wagon, studying him like he was a particularly interesting insect or a side of meat. He felt his stomach clench nervously. He knew he wasn't at as much risk as Charlie would have been, but he'd heard stories about what the Militia did to prisoners…. (Alright, maybe those were just scare tactics to prevent kids from wandering out of the village, but still…)

"How's your head?" the man asked, a note of genuine concern in his voice. Danny shrugged, feeling a little perplexed. "Gave everyone a bit of a scare, last night," the man continued, voice low. "Richards nearly shit himself when you snapped those chains open." He laughed, a low bark-like noise. "Captain Neville's going to have my head for this…"

"Let's hope," Danny mumbled into his arm. The soldier shot him an amused, if somewhat exasperated look.

"You are so much like your uncle, it's not even funny," the man replied. "Werewolves have always gotten on my nerves, but him… Miles Matheson was the worst. Real A-type personality, you know? Got along well with that bitch, Rachel, though."

Danny stared at the soldier. This was the most anyone had spoken to him in the past few weeks… Well, not without a beating as a follow-up, anyways. His ribs still hurt from that; not as much, but… Well, it hurt.

"Let's hope you don't fall into that trap around _our_ wolf," the man added, falling back. "He'll eat you alive."

Danny had to wonder what that meant. He sat up and shot a look at the head of the column. Over the sound of the wheels, he could just barely make out what Neville was saying. The teenager hid a smirk at what he heard. Hopefully the man _was_ developing an ulcer.

With that thought, he stared off into the distance, wondering what it would be like to run over the plains as a wolf.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Wondering if Danny's going to remember being a wolf? Drop a line and let me know!

Edit, 10/26/2012: Some dialogue has been changed to reflect information from episode five, in regards to Captain Neville's son.


	4. Wonderin' If I'm Blind

Hey, it's finally updated! Charlie thinks about the Matheson family gift.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.

- o – o -

Chapter four: Wonderin' If I'm Blind

Charlie was giddy with excitement as she shoved everything back into her pack the next morning. A day's travel had been wasted so they could catch up on events with Maggie and Aaron. Aaron and Maggie had discovered a source of power…sort of. They'd had to leave it behind, though, when the local Militia outpost had come to take the crops from the fields and burn the house down.

Shortly after they'd reached Lowell, they'd discovered the town was overrun with wild dogs. Rather than risk staying there—Maggie had felt it was unwise, on the basis of medical safety—they had left. They'd made their runs past Militia encampments at night, sleeping under abandoned cars or in burned out buildings during the day. According to Maggie, the last two days of their travel had left them with the feeling that they'd been…herded.

She wasn't complaining, of course, as it had led them right to Charlie and the rest of the gang.

Charlie knew _who_ had been herding them. Uncle Miles had been using the past two days of full moon and his three shifts at guard duty to guide Aaron and Maggie back to safety. Charlie wasn't sure what worried her more: That her only family in the world had been running around in unfamiliar territory without any back-up, or the fact that Maggie and Aaron might have been bitten.

The teenager was also worried about the fact that anyone could have attacked the camp while Uncle Miles had been out playing sheepdog. It was remarkably sweet of him to do that, but… Charlie sighed, feeling another headache coming on.

There was an imminently more comforting idea, though: She could become a werewolf too. Miles had tried to explain, patiently, that she couldn't shift until she'd been bitten. On the downside, he'd point-blank refused to bite here. The refusal was mostly out of respect to Rachel, Charlie's mother, and also out of respect to her father's wishes that neither of his children be bitten unless it was absolutely the _only_ way to save their life. Something had apparently come up in regards to the biting-the-kids thing that had Miles on edge, though. Charlie was smart enough not to press him for details.

What bothered her the most, though, was that—aside from the fact that Miles wasn't about to activate her genetic lottery ticket—her uncle wasn't using his gift to track Danny. He was a werewolf, for Pete's sake! There was _nothing_ that could stand up to a six-hundred pound ball of raging muscle and teeth longer than most swords! …was there?

The thought that something could stop a werewolf her uncle's size when he was changed was worrisome. The feeling stayed with her for several hours. Even the knowledge—acquired from Miles, of course—that Nate was following them wasn't comforting. (Alright, it was also creepy. Nate was…well, he was like the panther that had followed her around. It'd been more of a kitten, but it had been persistent. It'd also nearly killed Danny and Maggie when they'd been looking for sneezeweed or something, so she'd had to kill it.)

Charlie chewed on her lower lip as she mulled over her thoughts, watching Miles and Nora converse in low tones. She added another thing to the list of complexities that was Uncle Miles. Why, if he was such a big bad nigh-unstoppable killing machine for three days every month, did he need Nora?

_Well_, she thought with a shrug, _if Miles can turn into a six-hundred pound werewolf, maybe Nora can fly or teleport._ Aaron would promptly geek out and die happy; that was _literally_ the only result she could think of.

The girl pulled her pack on and hurried after her uncle and the Rebel. They'd moved out at first light, and there was no time to dawdle. If they missed any more time, they'd lose Danny. Hell, according to Maggie, Charlie might have lost her _and_ Aaron if they'd gone into Lowell. Apparently only the shadow…_thing_ (werewolf, Charlie substituted mentally) had saved them from getting torn apart by a crazy man in the theme park and his packs of wild dogs.

"Something's on your mind, Charlie," Maggie spoke up, startling the young woman. Charlie jumped, and relaxed when she saw it was only Maggie. "I'd give you some bread so we could talk, but I don't have any with me."

Charlie smiled. "All sorrows are less with bread," she said, laughing as Maggie spoke it at the same time. She sobered instantly. It was something her father had always said, whenever anyone who came into their home looked unhappy. Everyone in the village agreed that Ben Matheson made the best bread, and most of the women would have killed to get their hands on whatever recipe he was using. (Charlie knew it was all in the miniscule amounts of dried and powdered mint he added to the dough, but hadn't told anyone, except for her and Danny and Maggie. All of them had kept the secret too.)

"The best I can do, though," Maggie said gently, "is some traveler's bread. Your father would be duly horrified and, I think, would make everyone stop so he could set up a cook fire to make some _real_ bread."

Charlie accepted the traveler's bread from Maggie, lips twitching in a smile. "Thank you, Maggie," she added, biting a small corner off of the hard bread. She grimaced. Even for traveler's bread, this was hard.

"Now, what is bothering you?" Maggie had her own square of bread, although she was picking bits off as she walked instead of eating them.

"A…" Charlie looked at the head of the column, where her uncle was conversing with Nora. "Some…some Matheson family things."

"Miles is so lucky I took an oath," Maggie grumbled under her breath, glaring at Charlie's uncle. The man rubbed the back of his neck, shooting a worried look back at the two women.

The party continued on in relative silence, broken only by Nora and Aaron holding a discourse on whether or not one could use electric eels to power a light bulb. Aaron seemed hopeful that it would happen. Nora thought Aaron was going to get himself killed via electrocution. She was going to make popcorn and watch while the computer geek tried to hook the eel up to a light bulb to test his theory.

Fifteen minutes into Aaron's impassioned declaration on the benefits of an electric eel, Miles interrupted them.

"Charlie, we need information from the Militia. Would you like to help me get someone out here to interrogate?" Charlie nodded, eager for something to do.

Three hours later, she was regretting that decision.

"Of _course_ this will work Charlie," she grumbled under her breath as she snuck into the quartermaster's tent in the Militia outpost. "Go steal a bag of food, Charlie. Don't worry, not being a werewolf isn't going to hurt you. _Bite me,_" she finished with a low growl. She grabbed a knapsack and began stuffing supplies into it haphazardly. On an impulse, she grabbed two large white bottles that had red crosses on them and placed them on the top of the pile of soup cans and packages of crackers. Maybe Maggie would know what they were.

That was when the quartermaster came in. Given that this was part of the plan, Charlie was expecting it. …Mostly. Screaming and running, she decided, were her two best skills outside of the village.

_If I ever make it back to Sylvania Estates_, Charlie thought as she pelted for the sparse woods, _I am _never_ going to complain about boredom again._

Boredom was a good thing. Thankfully, Miles' Militia contacts had come through. Charlie was pretty sure that _most_ of the stories about Miles were _completely_ unrelated to him being a werewolf. Well…mostly. Considering the fact that most times, the Militia soldiers they met were about to pee their pants in fear or wanted to kill Uncle Miles, Charlie thought they might have at least an inkling of what was going on. That, or he was simply just _really_ good at killing people, without bringing the wolf into the equation.

Later that evening, as she took the first watch, Charlie had to wonder what Danny was up to. Was he having as much fun on his adventure…? Did the Militia know that he couldn't go near wheat fields, because it made his asthma worse; or that he liked eating bread when it was fresh, and he really hated morning people because he liked being awake at night?

Charlie spent a good deal of her watch crying.

- o – o -

Miles spent his watch scenting the air around the perimeter of the camp. He'd spent _years_ honing his instincts out of his wolfskin, and it had (finally) started to pay off. Over the years since he'd been bitten by his father, Miles had noticed that, with each year he completed a set number of shifts every full moon, his senses as a human got stronger. Not enough to produce results that would have raised eyebrows, but enough that he could catch scents or sounds that a normal human would have missed. He wondered what Charlie would say if he chased her stalker down, ripped the brat's head off, and delivered it to her as a bloody present—a token, of a sort, of familial affection.

He discarded the idea almost immediately. Charlie would have been horrified. She was too much Ben's child, even though Rachel's influence showed through occasionally. (Shooting two men in cold blood, a fact tempered by her need to free thirty prisoners on a chain gang. What an adorably sweet child.)

Ben would have been proud of her drive. Rachel would have been pleased by the casual brutality—it was, as he'd heard her say, the mark of a survivor. A leader. To Miles, after a while, that had begun to sound like "Miles, I am out of my mind; casual brutality is actually the mark of a complete fucking psychopath". Monroe would have laughed at that, if he'd laughed at all.

Unfortunately, he was probably going to make one of the stupidest decisions of his life. If Rachel had been around—and telepathic—she'd have gutted him with the silver palm stiletto she kept in her sleeve on principle.

Rachel Matheson _hated_ werewolves, and everything they'd represented.

- o – o -

_Two years after the Blackout_

Ben Matheson didn't know what he was supposed to do. His son had developed asthma. The only way to get medicine for Danny was to go to a hospital in the nearest city, which was three days travel. He could've made it in a night, but he and Rachel had promised, after they'd gotten married, that he would _never_ shift. Not until their kids were grown and out of the house, at any rate. Ben knew Rachel was uncomfortable around his blood relatives, but it didn't bother him too much.

If she didn't want him to shift, he wouldn't. He loved her that much, and besides…shifting was _painful_. Miles, his brother, got off on that apparently. Ben didn't want to admit it, but he thought Miles might have had more fun either way. It…it was distressing, in some ways.

And now he was about to break the one promise he'd made, first to himself, and then to his wife. He was going to turn into a wolf. He was going to bite his son. There was no way to get Danny an inhaler; even if they were still viable after two years, there would be no way to explain how he'd gotten it. Rachel knew, though, that the family curse had been mutating for the past fourteen generations. He could _probably_ pass this off as another one, if he was lucky…

Ben sighed and stepped out of the tent, staring up at the blood red full moon. The only thing he could do was change for the first time in ten years and hope that his son's genetic jackpot would cure the asthma. A blood moon was the only time to create a new werewolf, and the opportunity only came once every thirteen years.

Miles had bitten someone by accident once, during a fight. His brother had sounded guilty over the phone as he'd relayed the message. (Ben knew it had happened on a deployment, which probably accounted for the guilt. Their father had taught them that if you bit someone and they changed, you were responsible for their training. Miles had had a temper, and he must've bitten a local.) Why, then, shouldn't _he_, with a clear head, use it for a far nobler purpose and save his son's life?

"All sorrows are less with bread," Ben muttered wearily, wishing he had some right at that moment. Unfortunately, building a campfire at the moment was a bit too risky. There had been buildups of various militias in the area. The ones in dark green coats had been positively deferential after he'd pulled out his driver's license (useless in this world, but he'd carried it since he was sixteen and stopping now seemed stupid). That was worrisome. He still wanted some bread.

The man shot a look at the smaller tent his children were sharing. It was a small blue and grey pup tent, and it blended fairly well into the shadows in their campsite on nights without a moon, or at least nights with very little light. The flap was open, meaning Charlie (most likely) had forgotten to zip it shut. That was alright.

Being bitten was the best thing for Danny. Being a werewolf wasn't so bad. Not really.

He shifted and nosed into the tent. There was his son. For a second, Ben hesitated. What if it didn't work…? What if Danny's asthma wasn't cured?

Ben froze for a few seconds and crouched down, whining in distress. With one last sigh of regret, he bit his son's ankle as gently as possible. With that, the werewolf backed out of the tent and pelted off into the night for a run.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Wondering at the family dynamics popping up here? Drop a line and let me know!


End file.
